


Home

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s12e18 The Memory Remains, Fluff, Gen, Season/Series 12, with a tiny touch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: On what, exactly, it means to behome.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this as my mini-celebration for 100,000 posts on Tumblr... aka I wanted the 100,000th post to be a brothers thing, and this is what my brain produced.

Dean used to think that he lost his home when he was four year old. That he watched it go up in flames, burning down to rubble and ash and taking his mother along with it. He used to believe that November 2nd, 1983 was the day he became homeless; like maybe that was the turning point that would dictate the rest of his life living as a wanderer, unattached and unrooted.

Dean used to think that. Some days, he still does.

But then, there are the days when he’s sitting behind the wheel with a million miles of unexplored road ahead of him; the days when the windows are rolled down and there’s this boy in the passenger seat, all sunshine-dimples and the kind of love that’s built bone-deep over a lifetime. The days when he can look over at his little brother and grin ‘til his cheeks hurt and crank up the music until they forget about everything else in the world.

There are the days marked by knees knocking together under the table, elbows brushing, too-close and not-close-enough all rolled into one where they breathe the same air and move as a unit and stand together, a force to reckon with against anything that’s thrown their way. 

There are the days that are quiet, too, hot drinks and old books with the ticking of a clock to fill the silence. Shared looks and shared heartbeats that make it less lonely and more like a natural state of being.

(There are bad days, too, sometimes. Days where Dean wakes to the sound of his brother screaming; days when Hell bubbles to the surface; days when he looks down at his hands and only sees the blood that stains them, sharp and hot and crimson-)

But. But then, sometimes, there are also days like this. 

Days when he nearly nicks his own fingers digging his knife into the old wooden table in this secret place that they’ve claimed as their own, heavy determination knocking hard against nostalgia as he forces his name into the realm of eternity. Days when he can look up and meet Sam’s eyes, and see the way his brother’s smiling for him- for _them;_ for the legacy they’re going to leave behind, in the lives they’ve saved and the good they’ve done and the marks they leave right here, etched into this table.

Days like this- days when there’s that warm feeling in his chest, and he can’t wipe the big, excited grin off his face, and when Sam looks exactly as happy as he feels- they make it a little harder to believe that he really lost his home, all those years ago. Mostly, it feels like home has always been right within an arm’s reach, living and breathing right by his side in the way he never really thought a home could.

Mostly, home feels a whole lot like Sam, and Dean knows enough to hold on tight. This one, he won’t allow himself to lose.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm never going to be over the initials thing. e v e r


End file.
